


Release

by thorin_ohhhkenshield (thorinlock)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace, Mind Palace John, Mutual Masturbation, Sherlock's Mind Palace, basically just mind palace sexy masturbation shit because sherlock is repressed but horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorinlock/pseuds/thorin_ohhhkenshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up one night needing to retreat into his mind palace to find something that will help him find release. What he finds doesn't surprise him, though it does excite him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

The mind is a chaser of release.

Every dream, every fantasy, every "what if" – the mind is constantly running from itself, endlessly chasing an escape, pursuing an exit from its self-constructed walls.

Sherlock had a small room in his mind palace - one of a few purposefully compact spaces in what was mostly an austere yet chaotic mess – where he kept all these little memories and images, information stacked in neat piles, as prompts to help him escape. It was his little room of distractions.

He stood inside it now, methodically browsed through the file cabinets with alphabetically-arranged documents, thinking.

What did he want? What was he looking for?

In truth, he wasn’t sure, but the urge had hit him quite suddenly that night, ambushed him in his sleep as he awoke with a start from some bizarre, forbidden dream, feeling alienated from his body, clutching at his sheets in a desperate attempt to let his mind dominate when his body had clearly been presumptuously taking charge earlier.

_Think, Sherlock._

Did he want to relax to the pristine view of the beaches in Majorca? Pursue adrenaline through the reconstruction of a concert hall in the late 1600s teeming with the music of a rousing orchestra? Be carried away by the sensation of floating, lightly pulled forward by the calming waves of the ocean?

A dark corner of the room caught his eye and he strode towards it curiously. He wasn’t sure what he had kept here, but as he approached, shapes began to take form.

It was a mantelpiece, much like the one in the flat, and on it where various picture frames with photos inside. Images representing moments from waking life he had filed away here. He inched closer to get a better look at the pictures.

He stopped short, startled by what he saw. _How… why…?_ And yet, he wasn’t as confounded as he thought he would be. He closed his eyes in an effort to comprehend without interruption the meaning of that display, and his mind lingered on each of the images, each memory now replaying itself in his head.

This was what he was chasing tonight. He had thought he was simply just in need of stress relief, but he didn't need to relax. He needed to release.

He supressed the urge to block it all out. It had been some time since he last indulged himself in anything at all, not even drugs, and after all, all these basic human needs… they were simply chemical reactions, weren’t they? Logically traced desires, scientifically explained wants. There was no harm in humouring them, if only to make them go away.

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, simultaneously exiting his mind palace. If this was what his body needed, so be it.

He listened carefully to the quiet of the night. There were no sounds. John was certainly soundly asleep, and judging by the hour, surely there’d be no other interruptions.

His pale hands were clammy, his whole body tense. He needed to soothe himself. He ran his hands up and down his torso, underneath his robe, felt his warm chest pounding with anxiety.

This is not going to work if he isn’t calm.

He had thought he could simply perform the act and get it over with, that there’d be no need to be prodded along by the images on the mantelpiece. But apparently, his body was being very _specific_ tonight.

He rolled his eyes, frustrated with the necessity to revisit those images, and re-entered his mind palace, approaching the mantelpiece slowly. A chair appeared in the middle of the room, and he sat down on it, facing the display.

He disrobed, only for the convenience of movement, and felt nervously along the band of his thin cotton pants.

Sliding one hand under, he caressed the tip of his cock, moving slowly along down the shaft, so so slowly. It really had been a while, and he had to ease into things.

Suddenly the flash of some image, tinted gold and bronze, appeared in his mind without warning. He marvelled at its manifestation, feeling some shame at its appearance, yet, liberated in the unbridled, reckless admiration he could partake in of the sight before him.

Yes, this was it. This is what he needed to go on.

He began stroking himself slowly, toes curling at the immediate sensation, familiar yet newly felt. His breath hitched and with that sound of his inhaling, a new thought assaulted him – that of someone else’s heavy breathing, a panting most ambiguous... was the person exhausted or aroused? The sound of their laughter followed – it sounded like a chuckle at first, low and hoarse, and then the auditory fantasy quickly transitioned into a vision of steamy breath curling upwards on a foggy night. There was a face before his, so close, eyes dark in the shadows, hot breath swimming sensuously against the cold air to touch Sherlock ever so lightly on his own lips in a tempting caress…

“John,” he whispered aloud, gasping as a pang of pleasure racked his core, causing him to squirm in his seat.

Sherlock froze, panting desperately. The truth hit him like a bullet in the chest. He wondered if he should stop now before he went on too far. It was alright, he thought, to work up memories of his flatmate in that manner every now and then, but to go beyond that, to incorporate any more detail…

“Fuck it,” he swore under his breath, reassuming his grip on his hardened member once again and shutting his eyes.

“I could do that for you, if you’d like,” a voice suddenly spoke out most seductively, low and pleased.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and there he was. John was standing before Sherlock, in his mind palace, in that small room of hidden pleasures.

“Have you been here long?” Sherlock croaked hoarsely at him.

“You tell me.” John smirked. He was wearing what he wore the first time they had dinner together, so many nights ago at Angelo’s - the first night he visited Sherlock in his dreams and Sherlock had kept that memory of him in here.

“Ages,” Sherlock whispered.

John smiled at him, with that crooked smile Sherlock knew so well, but with eyes darkened with lust.

“I want you to watch me,” Sherlock murmured, and John’s smile widened.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, no longer caring about hunting for the specifics. He already knew all of them, and he was going to allow himself to conjure them up readily now.

He thought of the dazzling blue of John’s eyes, what looked like an explosion of starry oceans over sensuous, gentle clouds, the tender affection of those calming depths coupled with the dark intensity, some hidden monster of raw lust and aggressive desire, floating underneath, and he wished he could live in those eyes forever. He realised then that he did, that when he looked up at the night sky there was the dark captivation of John’s eyes, when he experimented with chemicals and their smoky colours wafted around him and tangled in his hair there was the changeability of John’s eye colour, when he let the water run in the bath and he poked a toe in at first contact with its warmth and the ripples cascaded out from that point there was the softness, the sensuality, and he sighed into the thought of kissing John over his eyelids, feeling his soft lashes flutter against his lips.

Sherlock arched his back and moaned aloud, increasing his pace as he continued to stroke himself, with more ferocity now as he bit his lip. He saw something dawn on John’s face – it was the forbidden lustfulness he had hidden so well coming through now, rippling through his body. John backed up and leaned on the wall, palming his own erection to the sight of Sherlock pushing himself over the edge to the thought of John.

Sherlock focussed now on other memories of John. The way he smelled, god – he was positive he could never ever forget that, regardless of time or distance. It seemed even when John wasn’t around, his scent continued to linger around Sherlock. It was a dash of cologne and body soap and fabric softener and shampoo and the musk of sweat and that natural, sweet scent of John’s skin that smelt like a whisper, like a warm caress, like an enveloping embrace, like everything Sherlock would ever want to touch and be touched by, and he whimpered in pleasure as a course of electrifying desire shot through his body at the thought.

He slowed down now, he didn’t want to chase it too quickly that what he was seeking would run off. He wanted to take his time, explore every aspect of this new state of being.

His other hand reached down to fondle himself, then further down to trace circles around his opening. He put two fingers from that hand in his mouth and then reached back down, simulating the sensation of wetness around his rim while continuing to torturously stroke himself slowly.

The thought of John being the one to…

“Oh, god yes,” John panted aloud, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, unsure if it was from the John who was standing inside his mind palace with him, or from deeper memories of John still.

What sounds would John make, Sherlock wondered, if John was the one in the chair? He closed his eyes and opened them again and found John before him, no longer clothed. How conveniently simpler things were when they happened in one's mind. Sherlock ravenously took in the sight of the he golden, tanned skin of his army doctor, bare as he sat in a chair directly opposite Sherlock, his substantive cock in his hand as he panted, whimpered, moaned, cussed, begged for release.

It was as beautiful a sight as the many others of John he had conjured over the years. Sherlock wished he could press kisses over every inch of that crisply bronzed skin and tangle himself with that powerful form, now squirming with pleasure. John's shoulder wound was a scar most unique, like a supernova Sherlock wanted to touch with a thousand kisses over while he grabbed at every part of John and held him, held him so tight that their skins never left contact with the other’s, that they themselves would become like an exploding star, joining together and building the combustible tension so violently that when they finally exploded, the world would shake and a hundred colours would wash over them and rousing sounds would clash and shatter and it would be like fireworks in the mind…

And with that, Sherlock picked up the pace, training his eyes on John, who mirrored his movements and smirked deviously. The look of pure heaven on John’s face as pleasure wracked his naked form coupled with the sight of pre-cum leaking from John's gorgeously curved, thick cock sent blood rushing straight to Sherlock’s centre.

“Come for me, love. Come for me, Sherlock,” John barely managed to whimper, and that was it.

With a soft cry verging on a pained sob Sherlock let the pleasure overtake him as he spilled over on himself, his core shaking with the intensity of the sensation and body squirming in a failed effort to dull the force of his climax. A hot, needy feeling washed over him centering on his opening, and he began throbbing with need and his other hand rubbed circles over his rim, his mind running marathons to imagine it was John who was knelt below, tongue aggressively lapping at him and entering him, that it was John’s hand clasped around Sherlock’s cock now stroking out the remnants of his pleasure.

Sherlock was sure he was about to lose his mind, but when he opened his eyes he was no longer in that room in his mind palace, he was in bed, his abdomen sticky with his release, his cock limp in his hand.

He was panting hard but he willed himself to listen carefully. John was still most certainly sound asleep.

He exhaled deeply, running his fingers over his chest, flushing out the last remaining pieces of his fantasy by imagining those touches came from John. It was in that sated, exhausted, vulnerable state that Sherlock came to a realisation:

He chased a release tonight because he needed to; he thinks of John because he can’t help it.


End file.
